


for dearest you will always be

by dollsome



Category: Downton Abbey
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-03-07
Updated: 2016-03-22
Packaged: 2018-05-25 06:37:17
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,804
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6184498
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dollsome/pseuds/dollsome
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Mary loses one happily ever after, and discovers that another has been there all along. (Set post-series.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. I

**Author's Note:**

> HELLO AO3 READERS. IT IS I, DOLLSOME, BACK AGAIN TO BE EXTREMELY CONTRARY ABOUT DOWNTON ABBEY'S CANON SHIPPING DECISIONS RE: MY BELOVED MARY.
> 
> ... if you were not around for my great Mary/Lavinia festival of 2011/2012, I apologize for how strange that introduction was. Anyway: once upon a time circa late season three, I thought, "Man, they better not put Mary and Branson together now that Matthew and Sybil are dead! That would just be a new level of melodramatic garbage for this show!"
> 
> And then I promptly went on to eat my words and ship Mary/Tom from s4-s6. Now that I have finally seen the end of the series, I must turn to fanfiction to ease my disappointed (but not surprised, but _a little surprised_ ) feelings.
> 
> There will be a few more installments to this after this first one. :)

_If I loved you less, I might be able to talk about it more. But you know what I am.—You hear nothing but truth from me._

-Jane Austen, _Emma_

 

* * *

 

Once Mary loses the baby, it doesn’t take long to lose Henry afterward.

It’s easy to be in love when everything is sunshine and flowers. It’s suffering that shows you if you’re really meant to see it through together. Mary had hoped, with absurd naiveté, that the suffering would never come, that it might save her from discovering the truth about her new marriage. She has always known in the back of her head, in the farthest corners of her heart, that she and Henry Talbot do not have what it takes to make it in the long run. It had taken the voices of everyone she knows and loves to drown out that certainty.

At least now she gets to enjoy the satisfaction of having been right all along. As far as victories go, it’s rather hollow.

Anna and Mama, who have been through this before, come to sit at her bedside while she recovers, their presences soft and kind and quiet. Carson visits her, awkward as he always is in matters of flesh and blood but wonderfully sweet all the same. Mary doesn’t cry during any of these visits. There’s no sense in crying. These things happen to women sometimes, and that’s all there is to it. It’s not like she’s lost a person she knew. She hadn’t even begun to show yet.

George and Sybbie scamper into the room bringing get-well kisses and tears prick in Mary’s eyes, but the tears don’t fall and that’s what really matters.

It’s only when Henry holds her tight, promising her that it will be all right, that they will try again, that Mary finally weeps—and even then, it’s mostly for the wrong reason. She thinks of Matthew, of how they struggled so much like this so long ago, of the nights they spent embracing this way, and for the first time in a long while she misses him so much that it steals the breath from her lungs. She wants to shove Henry off of her, to rage at the world until it somehow gives Matthew back to her. When Matthew promised her that things would get better, Mary always felt that it had to be true. With Henry, it feels like a placating lie.

And maybe that isn’t fair. She is still a little used to being on the defensive against him, and doesn’t know him well enough to know if he always means what he says.

She wishes they hadn’t married so soon. If only she had trusted her own instincts, rather than letting everyone convince her that it was high time for the monstrous Mary Crawley to lose her claws and teeth at last, and that Henry’s love was the only way of turning her from a beast into a beauty.

She doesn’t know what she will do. Even after all she’s been through, she hates the idea of causing a scandal. Of being seen as weak and foolish and wrong.

And so she rests in bed, bidding farewell to visions of herself and Henry glowing with happiness, joined by their child, given something true and real and reliable in common at last.

She thinks of Henry saying _We’ll try again soon_ , and wishes it were as simple as that, wishes she could find it in her heart to want that.

She’s glad for the distraction when Tom pops his head in the door.

“I won’t stay long,” he promises. “Henry told me you wanted some time to yourself. I only wanted to make sure—” But he stops talking there, uncertain of what to say. His forehead creases in sympathy, and Mary feels a well of affection for him.

“Oh, that’s only the sort of thing one has to say to one’s husband from time to time to get a little peace. You know I always want you around.”

“Always, hmm?” Tom says, smirking a little. “Perhaps you should be careful what you wish for.”

“Please. As if you have any time for little old me now that you’re forever running to London to spend time with the bewitching Miss Edmunds.”

Tom gives her a look that’s half-smile, half-grimace. Mary likes the thought that the reality of Miss Edmunds isn’t measuring up to the glowing first impression she made when Tom started seeing her back in January. The idea of Edith being the one to pick out Tom’s new true love rankles Mary. If anyone does that, it ought to be Mary. Then again, in Mary’s estimation, it’s all but impossible to find someone good enough. Sybil was one of a kind.

“I always have time for you,” Tom assures her. “Just call, and I’ll come running.”

“If that’s the case, then sit and stay awhile. I’ve grown tired of being treated like an invalid.”

Tom obediently takes a seat. Mary is glad to listen as he catches her up on what’s been going on with everything, her family and the estate and the children. He devotes a good five minutes to recounting George and Sybbie’s futile attempts to ride Tiaa through the nursery, and it feels good to laugh at something.

Finally, because she knows she must, Mary asks, “And how is he?”

“Sad. Worried about you.”

“That sounds about right, I suppose.”

“He’s afraid that you’re pulling away from him.”

“That’s ridiculous.”

“Is it?”

He’s got her there.

Mary sits up straighter. “Well, if I am, I’m certainly not going to admit it to you. You’ve been advocating for our happily ever after pretty much since the moment Henry and I met.”

“I’m sorry for interfering. I only wanted to make sure you didn’t throw your chance at happiness away. I know how stubborn you can be.”

“Yes, well, here I am. Happily ever after.”

Tom looks at her so earnestly that it curbs her spiteful sarcasm. He reaches for her hand, squeezing it warmly. Then he lifts it to his mouth and presses a gentle kiss to her knuckles.

Surely they’ve kissed each other dozens of times over the years, unthinking little gestures of greeting and farewell, but this is the first time that she’s ever really paid attention to his lips upon her skin.

It shocks her how nice it is: a touch that comes from old love well worn in. It’s so different from fresh romance or desire or any of the nonsensical newlywed impulses that she and Henry have been indulging in these past few months.

When he loosens his hold on her hand, she touches his cheek for a moment. Then she realizes how absurdly sentimental the gesture is and clasps her hands in her lap.

“Mary,” Tom says. “What is it?”

She decides to confess. Tom, at least, will understand. “When Henry was comforting me, I couldn’t help but think of Matthew. Even after all these years, sometimes I can’t shake how badly I want him with me.”

“I know the feeling,” Tom says.

“Of course you do,” Mary says softly, and wonders if she ought to have brought it up at all.

But Tom keeps looking at her, waiting for her to go on.

“I miss how it felt, I suppose. Having a husband who really knew me.”

“Henry knows you.”

“The bits I’ve allowed him to see.”

“He’s seen you at your best and your worst, and he loves you all the same.”

Mary appreciates the sentiment, but she doesn’t know how true it is. She can’t shake the feeling that Henry has never seen her at her best. At her most charming, or her most pleasant, certainly—but somehow those things don’t feel quite the same as ‘her best.’

Henry will never walk the grounds of Downton with her and feel the weight of its history in his bones. Henry doesn’t quite understand her fondness for Carson. (“He’s a bit of a scary old codger, isn’t he? Even if I haven’t been outside, I always feel like he’s about to scold me for tracking in mud.”) He never knew Matthew, and can’t see how much of him still lives on in George. Henry isn’t a part of life here, and Mary knows that it isn’t his fault. Furthermore, she knows that in time he will find his home in this place just like Matthew did.

But she’s already so tired of waiting for that day to come.

She impatiently brushes away a tear that had no business falling. “We got married too soon, that’s all. If I’d had more time to think it through, I think I would have gone about it differently. Waited until we had really gotten to know each other before taking that step. But I got so swept up in it, and everyone seemed to think it would be the greatest mistake of my life if I didn’t hang onto him. When even Granny is telling you you're a soulless pragmatist who needs to make room for love, you know it must be time for a change. And then he had everything all planned and ready, and what was there to do but jump?”

Tom looks at her as if she’s hit him.

“I’m not accusing you of anything,” Mary adds quickly. “Only wishing I’d handled myself differently.”

“Still,” Tom says, but doesn’t go any further than that. That’s quite a new thing: Tom Branson with nothing to say.

They sit in uncomfortable silence. It makes Mary realize how seldom the silences are uncomfortable between them.

“Don’t tell him what I’ve said,” she orders briskly at last. “I know you two are thick as thieves, but I insist that you stay loyal to me this once.”

“I promise,” Tom says.

Mary searches his face. He looks so glum.

“I’m sorry,” she says, meaning it. “You wish I hadn’t told you.”

“Don’t apologize,” Tom says. “It’s not the best news I’ve ever heard, but I want you to always feel like you can talk to me.”

“I do,” Mary says truthfully.

Tom forces a smile. “Maybe you’ll feel differently once a bit more time has passed, and things hurt a little less.” Mary can tell he’s trying to sound as optimistic as he can. He’s not doing a very good job of it.

“Maybe,” Mary says, mostly to have mercy on him. She doesn’t want Tom feeling like it’s his fault, even though truthfully he’s far from blameless. She had wanted very badly to believe him about Henry. To be able to settle down into her own life at last.

Sometimes she still wonders why he pushed Henry at her so hard, refusing time and again to take no for an answer.

Then again, Mary has never had a knack for understanding selfless gestures.


	2. II

Even though they had promised never to bring it up again, Henry starts to miss racing. His wounds begin to heal over, and working with cars day in and day out with Tom gradually starts stoking that old passion again. He doesn’t come out and say that Mary is to blame for him giving it up, but it’s easy enough to read between the lines. They carefully avoid the subject for weeks until one of them finally snaps. The resulting row is long and brutal, and ends with Mary snapping, “Excuse me for not being heartbroken over your lost career, Henry, but if it weren’t for your beloved bloody motorcars, I would still have my husband.”

Henry looks as if she’s struck him. He leaves the room and she sits on the bed, feeling strangely as if she’s struck herself too. Despite what everyone always seems to promise about her growing softer in her old age, it doesn’t ever seem to stick. This time, she hadn’t set out to hurt him; it had just happened. She wonders if that’s better or worse than when her cruelty is calculated.

She doesn’t see him for the rest of the day.

“Maybe some people simply aren’t cut out for marriage,” Mary says that evening, trying to keep her tone pithy and light as she stares at her face in the mirror.

“He’ll come around, my lady,” Anna says. “He’s still getting used to leaving behind the bachelor life. It takes time."

“I wasn’t talking about him." 

Anna is quiet.

“Don’t be so hard on yourself,” she says then. It isn’t exactly _‘Don’t be ridiculous.’_

 

+

 

Henry decides to leave for good eight months after their wedding, with the understanding that they will sort out the divorce soon. Mary’s parents are uncomfortable with the development, but not especially surprised. For months Mary and Henry have been fighting more than they’ve been getting along. Family meals have become tense beyond the bearing of it; technically Mary knows this, and yet she can’t seem to keep the barbed remarks from spilling out of her mouth whenever Henry says some offhanded infuriating thing.

She thinks her family and Tom must very nearly yearn for the days of burst ulcers ruining supper.

“I just don’t see it working out, Mary; God knows I’ve—God knows we’ve both tried,” Henry tells her one morning, looking out the window instead of at her, and Mary thinks that these words are the loveliest gift he’s ever given her.

 

+

 

Henry and Tom sort out the details of their business. Tom hires a local young man to take Henry’s place, and it all seems to work itself out. Mary feels more terrible about pulling the two of them apart than anything else. It’s not easy to make a true friend, and Tom has seemed so happy around Henry.

“I don’t want you to feel as if you have to pick a side,” Mary tells Tom, dropping by the car shop one afternoon.

“But I do, don’t I?”

“Tom—”

“And I have. It’s yours.”

Mary finds herself momentarily speechless, a thing that almost never happens.

“Are you sure?” she finally says, and then regrets how unlike her the words sound. Being touched and baffled that someone would choose you is surely more Edith’s style. At least in her pre-marchioness days.

Tom is thoughtful and quiet for a moment.

“When I look back on my time with Sybil,” he says, “I’m glad for the happy years we had together. But I regret that my own stubbornness blinded me sometimes. I was so sure that I was right that I forgot at times to listen to her, and I wish I’d been more supportive. I was young and bullheaded, and I should have been better. I just didn’t want her to get trapped at Downton and never give what was between us a shot; I didn’t want to see her brightness wasted.” Tom smiles grimly. “I think maybe it was a bit of the old me rearing his head, when I wouldn’t stop pushing you toward Henry. I was worried about your future, and it came out all wrong.”

“Well, I forgive you,” Mary says, “and I’m sure Sybil does, too. If there’s anyone who understands being bullheaded, it’s me. Though that’s certainly not the word I’d pick.”

“Resolute?” Tom suggests teasingly.

“Much better,” Mary says, smiling.

Tom grows more serious. “Henry’s been a good friend to me, it’s true. But Mary, you’re my family. There’s nothing more important than that.”

Feeling light with relief, Mary switches to a playful tone. “Even though I don’t know a thing about cars?”

“Not yet,” Tom says, his eyes bright with mischief. “Maybe I’ll teach you.”

Mary arches an eyebrow. “Good luck with that.”

“Lady Mary Crawley,” Tom admonishes good-naturedly, “do you underestimate me?”

“Never,” Mary promises, laughing.

 

+

 

Mary frets the most about what George will think; he’s at the age now where he won’t just forget that Henry was ever here. But when it comes to father figures, George already has his favorites picked out: Mr. Barrow ranks first, closely followed by Uncle Tom and Donk. He liked Henry very well (especially Henry’s merry willingness to let George climb about him like a monkey), but he only nods when Mary tells him that Henry has had to move away, and won’t be at Downton anymore.

Mary dreads more fallout— _“Do all daddies go away?”_ , or some terrible question like that—but it never comes. She supposes Henry wasn’t around quite long enough for George to start thinking of him in that way. Not when he already has so many dearly beloved alternatives.

“It may be time to reconcile myself to the fact that the closest thing he’ll have to a father is Barrow,” Mary says one day, watching the children scamper about on the lawn.

“Children have had worse fathers,” Tom says fairly. “And besides,” he teases, “what am I? The furniture?”

“Well, of course George has got you,” Mary says, impatient. “That goes without saying. But I don’t want you to feel you’re bound to us forever; it’s not as if we’re married.”

As soon as she says it, the word hangs awkwardly in the air. She wishes she could breathe it back in. _Married._  She half-expects Tom to balk. She waits for his face to look as awkward as she feels inside.

But he only smiles. “I don’t mind being bound,” he says. “Not in the least.”

“Well, good,” Mary says lamely, and feels odd and lightheaded as she turns her attention back to the children.

 

+

 

 “I haven’t heard much from Tom about the great Miss Edmunds lately,” Mary says to Edith during one of her sister’s visits. They’re catching up over tea, trying to live up to their resolution to do a bit better at sisterhood. 

“That’s because they’ve split up.”

“What a shame,” Mary says, deciding to tactfully hide her triumph. “Do you know why?”

“She was convinced his heart was elsewhere, even though Tom would never admit it. Laura would drop all sorts of hints about the future, and Tom would never pick up on a single one. Finally she asked Mr. Spratt about it, and he said it’s best to move on if it seems like the fellow will never really be able to commit." 

Mary laughs, and is thankful to have an excuse as good as Granny’s butler doling out romantic advice under a lady’s nom de plume. She feels gladder than she has in months.

“Do you have any idea who it might be?” Edith asks. “I couldn’t think of any girl he’s been spending time with. Has he been seeing someone from the village?”

“Not that I know of,” Mary says lightly.

“That’s what I thought. Between working, spending time with Sybbie, and strolling around the grounds with you, he doesn’t have a spare minute in his day.” Edith is starting to get a gleam in her eye that Mary has learned over the years to regard with sheer horror. Or perhaps Mary’s imagining it. Dear God, let Mary be imagining it.

“Let’s check up on the children, shall we?” Mary says briskly, and gets up to leave the room. As soon as she’s out in the corridor and free of her sister, she feels her lips turn up in a smile quite of their own accord.

 

+

 

“I hear you and Miss Edmunds are no more,” Mary says to Tom that night at drinks.

“Edith?” Tom surmises.

“Naturally.”

Tom sighs in good-natured exasperation. “I should have known the news would make it back to you eventually.”

“Of course it would. You must remember who you’re dealing with.”

Tom chuckles.

“Besides,” Mary says, feeling curiously thrilled, “why would you want to keep it a secret?”

“Oh, I don’t know,” Tom says. “I felt like talking about my failed romance would be in poor taste, when yours was a much bigger loss.”

“Nonsense. Misery loves company.”

“And are you miserable?”

Mary considers it.

“Do you know,” she says, “not in the slightest.”

“Good,” Tom says, and grins at her. “Me either.”

They clink their glasses together in celebration. Mary reflects upon what she said, wondering if she can quite trust it to be true. She rather thinks that it is, for once. With Tom by her side and her family’s voices filling the room, caught in their own conversations but here with her all the same, she feels quite soundly at peace.


	3. III

Carson and Mrs. Hughes’ first anniversary comes up in May. Mary wouldn’t have remembered it on her own, but Tom mentions it. He’s determined to do something nice for them, it turns out, and he regales Mary with his plan to go over to the Carsons’ cottage while they’re still here at Downton and set up a fine supper for them.

“I’ve already cleared it with Mrs. Patmore,” Tom says, “and she’s agreed to whip up something festive.”

It is one of those moments of vast difference between them. Mary has adored Carson for her entire life, but she would never think to do something like this. But Tom has lived among them, and doesn’t feel that same distance. It’s easy to forget; these days Mary often feels as if Tom has always been part of the family. She can’t quite remember how things were without him.

“It will be a nice surprise, I think,” Tom says, looking quite pleased with himself.

“I thought you said your matchmaking days were over,” Mary remarks, smiling.

“It doesn’t count as matchmaking if they’re already married.”

“And you think you’re going to rope me into helping?”

“I think I have a fair shot at it. After all, who adores Carson more than you?”

“Mrs. Hughes, I should hope.”

“Fair enough. After Mrs. Hughes?”

“Well, then it’s certainly me, and I’ll fight anyone who claims otherwise.”

Tom grins. “Exactly.”

And so Mary becomes part of his scheme.

 

+

 

On the day of, it’s no small feat to hide the goings-on from Carson and Mrs. Hughes; after all, it’s been their business to know every happening of this house for decades. Mary gets her parents to promise that they’ll keep Carson and Mrs. Hughes tied up in household business for the afternoon.

Outside it’s sunny without a cloud in the sky; it’s hard to imagine a more perfect spring day. Tom has already enlisted Anna to help them, and decides that they might as well bring the children along too for a bit of air and excitement.

At half past three they go into the kitchen to collect the food Mrs. Patmore has prepared. There are a number of baskets lined up across the kitchen counter.

“She’s gone all out, hasn’t she?” Mary says in an undertone to Tom as Mrs. Patmore bustles around making sure everything’s ready. Daisy, meanwhile, rewards George and Sybbie’s visit with sweets.

“Why wouldn’t she?” Tom murmurs back. “Mrs. Hughes being her best friend and all.”

“Is she?” Mary asks, surprised.

“Learn something new every day about the people you've lived with your entire life,” Tom teases.

 "Oh, hush," orders Mary.

“This is my favorite room!” George announces, nibbling his sweet with great satisfaction, and inspires a great round of laughter in everyone.

Once Mrs. Patmore’s made sure everything is up to snuff, she orders Daisy to help carry the baskets over to the Carsons’ cottage.

“Nonsense,” Mary says. “I’ll take one, and surely that way we’ll have enough hands to carry everything over.”

Everyone stares at her in bafflement.

“You needn’t act as if I’m completely hopeless,” Mary adds. “I do have arms.”

“Of course, my lady,” Mrs. Patmore says obligingly. “I’ll just take a moment for some last minute touches, then.”

Mary pretends not to notice while Mrs. Patmore and Daisy shuffle the contents of the baskets madly. Despite her efforts, the poor cook still cringes as she hands the lightest basket to Mary. The thing weighs little more than air—dear lord, what do they take her for?—but Mary smiles politely and accepts it.

“How are you faring, my lady?” Tom teases once they’re out in the bright sunshine. “I do hope your arms aren’t in danger of falling off.”

“Do shut up,” Mary says regally. It sends the children into a wild fit of giggles.

 

+

 

It doesn’t take long to arrange quite a lovely feast on the Carsons’ table, complete with no shortage of artfully placed doilies. (It turns out that’s what Mary’s basket held. Nothing but doilies. Tom almost broke a rib laughing at that discovery.)

“Something’s missing,” Tom declares, studying the table.

“Flowers,” Anna says sagely.

“But we didn’t think to get any,” Mary says, disappointed.

“There are wildflowers enough outside,” Tom says. “They’ll do. And I bet I know a few someones who’d be eager to gather them.”

“You go out and pick the loveliest bouquet you can,” Anna says. “And I’ll work on warming the food up here.”

Tom goes out to wrangle the children into flower duty. Mary hovers behind, not quite certain where she belongs.

“I can help,” she tells Anna, and wonders if it’s true. A grown woman shouldn’t cower in fear at the thought of a stove, and yet here she is.

The older she gets, the more uncomfortable she becomes with this divide. The traditional part of her clings proudly to certain notions. _It can’t be so very wrong, masters and servants; it’s the way that it’s always been, after all_. She likes the idea that she, Mary Crawley, is someone important, and what better proof is there of status?

And yet with every year that passes her eyes seem to open a little more. Before she would never have given it a second thought, but these days she bristles uncomfortably at the implication that it’s her God-given right to be dressed and undressed like a doll. Perhaps what it all comes down to is that she likes having someone to talk to when she wakes and before she sleeps. It’s not as if she has a husband to fit the bill.

Apart from Tom, Anna is the dearest friend she has in the world, and there is a dark part of Mary that wonders if Anna would care at all if she weren’t paid to do it.

But Anna’s smile is effortless and true, and maybe Mary’s loneliness (when it strikes, which it doesn’t always) is of Mary’s own making. If only she could kill this suspicion that there is something prickly and unlovable at the heart of her.

“Go on,” Anna says brightly. “They’ll need your discerning eye.”

“If you’re sure,” Mary says.

“Go!” Anna says, waving in pretend frustration, and Mary laughs a little and does as she’s told.

 

+

 

Tom guides the children through the grounds, nodding very seriously and vocalizing his approval over their selections. Off Sybbie’s prompting, he begins picking flowers as well. He tucks one behind her ear; then, to make sure that George doesn’t feel left out, he fastens another rather haphazardly to the little boy’s lapel.

Mary strolls over, smiling at their antics.

“Mama needs one!” George insists.

“You’d better pick the very best one, then,” Tom suggests.

George examines the flowers intently, then finally settles upon one. Rather than presenting it to Mary, he hands it along to Tom.

“You don’t want to give it to her?” Tom asks.

George shakes his head stubbornly.

“Do it like mine,” Sybbie advises, the sage expert in this new fashion trend.

Indulgently, Tom approaches Mary.

“Do you mind?” he says.

“It seems their hearts are quite set on it,” Mary answers.

Tom smilingly tucks the flower behind her ear. His thumb grazes her cheek as he pulls his hand away.

 “Well?” Mary says, oddly breathless. “How does it look?”

 "Perfect,” Tom declares. Mary is struck by the thought that he looks rather handsome—his eyes turned bluer by the sky behind him, his lips curving up in pleasure at the sight of her. He always does look so right outside, so much more alive than he does in black tie and a drawing room.

For a senseless moment, she has trouble looking away.

Then she gets ahold of herself and scans the area for a distraction. Anna is standing in the cottage doorway, watching them. She’s smiling, but it’s the kind of smile that makes Mary uneasy. There’s a certain knowing air about it.

“We can’t very well leave Anna without a flower, can we?” Mary says to the children, and they immediately get started on their newest mission.

Mary looks back to Tom, hoping the strange moment will have passed. He grins at her, and perhaps she only imagines that there’s something awkward in it.

“And what have we here?” comes that great rumbling voice Mary has always loved.

Carson and Mrs. Hughes are walking toward them, arm in arm and smiling.

“It was meant to be a surprise,” Mary tells them.

“It’s your anniversary!” Sybbie proclaims, rushing over to them.

“Yes, I’m aware of that!” Mrs. Hughes says, chuckling.

“We’re doing anniversary flowers,” George reports. He scurries over to Carson with a haphazard bouquet in his little hands.

“You’ve got to put it in her hair, like Daddy did to Aunt Mary,” Sybil explains, pointing at Mary. Mary feels the very uncharacteristic compulsion to blush.

“Oh, I don’t know if I merit such a big to-do,” Mrs. Hughes says pleasantly.

“My dear,” Carson says grandly, “of course you do. And far be it from me to ignore Mistress Sybbie’s wise advice.”

Sybbie beams.

Carson’s hand shakes visibly as he lifts the flower to his wife’s ear—it pains Mary every day to see how the tremors worsen—but Mrs. Hughes is patient, her face warm and loving. She brings her hand up to rest it over his, holding him steady.

For a moment, Mary is so unaccountably struck by emotion that tears prick in her eyes. It’s ridiculous. What will she be reduced to next, weeping at sunsets? And yet there’s something so very sweet and sad and wonderful about it, the notion of finding love even after you must have given up on it long ago.

And finding it right next to you, of all places.

 

+

 

“That was quite the afternoon, wasn’t it?” Mary says that night as Anna helps her dress for bed.

“It was,” Anna says. “I think they were very pleased. I could swear Mr. Carson had tears in his eyes watching the children scamper about.”

“He’s an old sweetheart, for all his severity.”

“Not unlike some others around here,” Anna says teasingly.

Mary rolls her eyes, but smiles.

“It’s good to see you happy, my lady,” Anna adds, more serious.

“For heaven’s sake. I was romping around outside with a garden weed hanging off my ear. I hope my standards for happiness haven’t sunk as low as that.”

“It’s not always about what you’re doing, you know. It’s who you’re with.”

“I suppose one’s children do make even mundane things special,” Mary says quickly. “Speaking of which, you must go home to yours. Don’t let me keep you any longer.”

Anna gives her that knowing look again. “Very well. You sleep well, my lady.”

“And you,” Mary says, relieved to be left alone.

 

+

 

Even though she’s grown into a full sized dog, Tiaa is still a puppy at heart, and has a penchant for adventuring. She sneaks into Mary’s bedroom just as Mary is about to turn the light out, prodding the door open with a determined nudge of her nose.

Mary gives the dog a stern glare. “You’re not as charming as you think you are, you know.”

Tiaa responds with an enthusiastic wag of her tail.

Mary sighs and clambers out of bed. “Come on, then. Let’s get you where you ought to be.”

She walks Tiaa down the hall to her parents’ room, and is about to knock when Papa’s vice catches her attention. Her hand remains frozen, reaching toward the door.

“... something odd about Mary and Tom?” Papa is asking.

“Odd how?” Mama wants to know.

“I never thought to pay attention before, but now that Henry’s gone, I can’t help but notice. Especially after that little scheme of theirs today. They do spend a lot of time together, don’t they?”

“They work together.”

“And look at the history of people who’ve worked together under this roof. Bates and Anna, Carson and Mrs. Hughes—”

“Molesly and Baxter,” Mama contributes.

“No!” Papa says, shocked. “Really?”

“You notice these things when it’s your own maid.”

“Well, golly. Good for Molesley. I never would have seen that one coming.”

“I know,” Mama says, and they laugh together.

When Papa has recovered, he exclaims, “But really! Has the servants’ hall been blessed by Aphrodite?”

“Robert,” Mama says mischievously, “are you suggesting that Mary and Tom are in love?”

“Oh, heavens no. Nothing so dire as that. They just seem to _prefer_ each other.”

“Which isn’t a bad start.”

“Don’t tell me you approve.”

Mama pauses, thoughtful. Mary feels uncommonly aware of the beating of her own heart. “In a way, they’ve grown up together. Losing Sybil and Matthew, being left with the children ... perhaps they have become partners in life without realizing it. And that’s an important foundation to have, you know, once the romance fades.”

“You do have a point,” Papa says. “It seemed like Mary and Henry had a great deal of romance, and we got a front row seat to just how well that worked out once the bloom was off the rose.”

“We did indeed,” Mama says warily.

“Well, I don’t know if I like this Mary-and-Tom idea, but if it did come to pass, it wouldn’t be the strangest match one of our daughters has made,” Papa declares. “At least he’s not a chauffeur any longer.”

“That’s the spirit, darling.”

“Then again, he _is_ her brother-in-law.”

“Well, no match is perfect.”

“No match save one,” says Papa fondly. Mary supposes she had better intervene before things take a turn for the amorous. She knocks briskly on the door.

“Who is it?” Mama calls.

“Just me,” Mary announces, ushering Tiaa inside. “Look who I’ve found.”

As Papa coos over the return of his most beloved child, Mama gives Mary a curious glance—wondering if she overheard, no doubt.

“I’ll leave you to enjoy the happy reunion,” Mary says, swooping in to kiss her mother on the cheek. “Goodnight.”

Once she’s gone, some childish impulse makes her stand still outside the door, listening at the crack.

“Speak of the devil,” Papa says. “You don’t think she heard us, did you?”

“Well, if she did, that may have very well sorted out the problem. You know how she hates to do what we expect her to.” Mama sighs. “And who can blame her, after Henry?”

Mary goes back to her room—lightheaded, heart pounding as if it will burst—and doesn’t sleep a wink.


End file.
